


Sigurd Snake in the Eye Imagines

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Breastfeeding Kink, Deaf Character, F/M, Mommy Kink, Slavery, Thrall - Freeform, loss of hearing, thick!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: All my one shots centered around the snake eyed prince himself.





	1. Stop Taking Me Lightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd's girlfriend contracts meningitis-- and loses her hearing.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/e1e945868eb88ca285e76bc0b400c075/tumblr_pi9dnmQGBj1v19l0n_500.jpg)

You were a well established, well educated woman. You had a major in Music where you met your boyfriend Sigurd years ago in college. When you graduated, somehow you imagined a picture perfect world where you would travel around and learn all the music from different continents with him. It didn’t turn out that way.

“We can do implants, if it’s is viable, to restore a bit of sensation. But it would be expensive.” The doctors were speaking, but you weren’t listening. Instead, they were talking to your boyfriend who was the only source of stability at the moment. Your mother was back to work for the week. Sigurd glances over to where you sit, running his hands down a his black slacks. A bit, the doctor said. He exhales sharply with a nod.

“Let’s run the tests.” He says. The doctor flits out the room, leaving you with your boyfriend and a body of books on your bed. Behind you, Sigurd slaps his hands together sharpy.

You don’t turn around.

With a thick sigh, he walks around your plasticy hospital bed. You reach out to stroke his cheek as he comes near, but your still clumsy hand misses. He leads it back to his cheek.

“They want to do tests on you, to see if we can restore some hearing with implants. Do you want that?” He starts. “We can stop studying for today.” He forcefully pronounces the words. You glance to where he is pointing at your ASL books, slow as if you’re stupid, and sign quickly.

“Move.”

You never were one to give up and in a definite way, that was why he loved you. He only wished he had the nerve to say that before the ring burned a hole into his pocket.


	2. Sinning

This was not the life you always dreamed of. Wadding in the murky water of marshes, pushing away salt swept grass and the slimy friendly fish. You lost track of the days since you stowed away on a boat. Your warm, secure home where your father and mother were probably yet still lamenting over your loss… Or perhaps loathing you. Anymore you weren’t sure.

“They’re still in the darkness…” You turn your face up to the treetop canopy where birds chitter in song. “But then again, so am I.”

It was a warming blue sky and too quickly the stars began to rise to life. The sun was beginning to set again. The warmth fleets away from your skin, and the cooler it became, the more you knew you need shelter. The water carries you away from the middle out towards the banks of the river. There you lurch upon the shore, dragging sopping wet layers of clothes along with you while growling out your frustration.

“Where do I go now?!” You ask yourself, ringing out your heavy dress like wet laundry. A light rain of flowers fell down from the canopy spinning onto your lap. There was a certain stillness in the air that was quickly overwhelmed by beads of water dripping down your cheeks.

_Are you ready?_

_No, how could I be? I’ve never done this before!_

_I’ll be gentle._

“You could come with me.”

You turn in wet grass toward the river to find a tall, looming figure with unkept blonde hair. The water splashes up at his waist as he pulls himself ashore. A succession of memories synapse in your minds eye. Meeting him, kissing him, falling for him all when you knew God’s holy eye would see you wherever you went.

Sweet baby Jesus, you weren’t ready when he broke through the water onto the shore. His muscles were tight, shifting under sopping wet clothes. As pregnant as you were, flailing wasn’t an option.

“Prince Sigurd! How did you find me?” You say all in a hurry.

Sigurd bent down to your level, leaning down with his braids tickling your breast. Your eyes averted quickly to the coursing water. He’s here…. He’s here and no one else is here to remind you of your standing as a gentle, Christian woman. How you should save yourself and not lust a sinning heathen demon.

“It wasn’t long before Ivar brought this up.” His hand came over your baby bump. You jerk back in response, causing his eyebrows to furrow. “Why are you afraid?”

You could think of many, many reasons why you should be afraid. He was the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, the one who made himself the king. He slaughtered with his brothers and above all, his eyes. Your own jerked up to catch his eyes with the symbol of sin, a snake that spiraled within.

“You make me a sinner. I should have married first.” Your words are heavy, almost as heavy as your skirts that were at the moment waterlogged. In the distance subsequent voices call out for their brother. Sigurd glances over his shoulder to shrill something out back to the voices that come closer. All at once the owners of those voices keep their distance.

“If I marry you… and make you an honest woman, then you will no longer be a sinner.” He offers his hand out to you. You wish it was that easy. Oil and water did not mix. You learned as much with the hours and days devoted to religion. But his words filled your ears like the pleasures of sweet bread and you nod eagerly. You tell yourself you have no choice over and over as if that would impact the decision fluttering in your belly.

“God would want our child to have a father.” You say as you take his hand. He sets his hand behind your back as he helps you up.

He tips his forehead against your own. “What a god to want a heathen one.”


	3. The Arrangement

Your father sent you away for a good reason. You weren’t the thin, desirable blonde shieldmaidens your sisters were. In fact you were neither of those things… and people made it a habit to torment you about it. By all recreational speak, Sigurd was rumored to be an outcast like you. You heard a great deal on him and when you arrived to the first dinner there, Ivar was quick to pick on your size.

“Don’t tell me that is your wife to be Sigurd? She’ll smother you.” Ivar roared as you approached the table. Ubbe tossed a piece of bread at Ivar to shush him while you cleared your throat all so slightly.

“Prince Sigurd.” Your hands meld together, ice frosting your feet as Sigurd bit his brother a nasty glare, rushing from behind the table.

“Ignore him. He is crazy.” Sigurd grumbles, taking up your soft hands in his. He quickly brings the dorsal side of your hands to his lips, brushing his plump lips over your hand. He places a sole kiss over your knuckles. Don’t show excitement, you think.

You inhale sharply and instead look to a few shieldmaidens who accompanied you on your way here. Her warm smile encourages you to relax and enjoy his affections. He was the sweetest of the five by rumor. Surely he wouldn’t care. Pressure to your rounded hips tell you that it is Sigurd’s hand set on your thick waist.

“Rumor has it you sing like a Nixie, would you sing for me?I would… like to make music with you.” Sigurd asks, taking his Oud and abandoning his family inside the Great Hall. You almost feel like you can finally breathe, scurrying along like a mouse through Kattegat. It was true that you had a pretty voice… but typically, that went with ‘pretty face’. Perhaps the compliment was a bit marred.

“If you will play.” You motion to his Oud.

He laughs, “I will.”

You both sink into the grass, Sigurd kneeling in front of you on his lower legs. You give him a moment to prepare. The tune he strung was light and airy. His fingers were skilled a top of his instrument and while you were shy, he was proud of his skill.

A few moments later, Sigurd’s eyes drifted up to catch yours. “Whenever you are ready.” He encourages.

You catch the next rhythm that suited you well. “I… I dreamed a dream of silk and fair furs, of a pillow so deep and soft, it warmed my soul.” The words were shaky. Sigurd’s smile warmed you, encouraging you to continue your sweet song. Your hands fiddle across the cloth of your skirt as Sigurd edges closer and closer.

“..I thought it would be best to rest on these furs and forget all the rest.” As your words carried on, your fears seem to evaporate into the wind. The words become smoother and easier to say. Your words melded with the familiar strum of his fingers across the strings. Sigurd bobs his head most contently in tune with your gentle words.

“Peace, if it is to be found, is where one is furthest from the humankind. There one can have dreams of silk and fine furs.” You finish with those final words. Sigurd’s fingers come across the strings but one final time before completely stilling. The only sound was but a small whistle across the blades of grass. Sigurd’s Oud hits the grassy floor. He lurches his body over you, slim compared to your wide hips and soft stomach. Instinctually you lean away from him until you have nowhere else to go against the blades of grass. His firm arms hold his place hovering above you.

“I think… this arrangement will work.” Sigurd smiles. His eyes are gleaming in what you can only say is the most honest of smiles. You can’t help smile too. Your hands travel their way up his arms, timid at first. When Sigurd doesn’t flinch, you sigh in relief.

“I think so too.”


	4. Not Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't stand by while Sigurd tests his luck with Ivar any longer.

There was nothing sexual about your relationship with Ivar. He told himself time after time that it was nothing. Nothing to be worried about. It was none of his business. After all, you were only friends. Somehow… every time he found Ivar’s head in your lap, it all flew out the window. His eyes knit in the hot rage that coursed through his veins like venom and before he knew it, his lips were flapping some kind of bitter hate that he couldn’t control. Back and forth, back and forth until Sigurd’s lips spilled words he couldn’t take back.

“…she’s the only one that really ever loved you.”

It was a lie. He knew Ubbe loved his small brother and more importantly, you did.

“Sigurd no!” Your soft words titillated his ear and with Ubbe’s frantic calls of Ivar’s name, he was jerked one way then another. The floor came up underneath his foot short of whaling screams. Behind him, Ivar’s axe cut through the air and cut down an innocent bystander. Ivar leaned back in his seat, exhaling harshly when Ubbe and Hvitserk rushed over.

Sigurd pushed himself up, cradling your body against his chest. Your nails dug scratches into his broad shoulders. Otherwise, by some miracle of the gods, you were both unharmed. Sticky, by the mead that clattered on the ground, but unharmed. Her body quakes against his. All at once he realizes the moistness at his neck isn’t his blood but wet tears against his neck. 

“It… it’s okay, (Y/N).” It’s all Sigurd thinks to say.

“No, no it’s not! It’s not okay!” Your hand beats on his chest in several upset beats. “You almost died! Again! Why do you two have to keep being cruel to one another! Why! Why! Why!”

Your voice was shrill, attracting the attention of those not clustered around Ivar’s latest kill. Ivar drops off his chair to drag himself close, cautiously approaching when you all but threw Sigurd back to get away from Ivar. “Go away!”

“I can’t do this anymore.” You scramble over the thick light blue fabric of your dress, stumbling away. The four remaining brothers look between one another when Bjorn breaks through the crowd, accounting for all of his brothers.

“Go find her.” Ivar jerks his head in the direction you disappeared off to. Sigurd doesn’t miss a beat. His feet move with purpose, easily catching up to you as you pull thin blue cloth a top of your head. He whirls about you, holding your upper arms tightly.

“I’m sorry.” He says,the best thank you he could form. “I’m sorry I put you through these things.”

The thin kohl along your eyes has begun to run all over again. Just as you gained control of your tears, it happens all over again. The Ragnarssons always had this effect on you. Your lips are sealed shut, pouting outwards to his words.

“He’s going to do it. It’s a matter of time you push your luck too far.” You say, leaning over to push his bangs away from his forehead. Those despicable things that you told him to cut time and time again.

“I won’t be here to watch you die,” You warn, turning away from him and toward the space you shared with Ivar. His insistence to keep you safe meant Sigurd’s heart churning in darkness. As you turn to leave, Sigurd jerks your hips back against his to stop you. His trousers scratch against the back of your gown. His arms force you tightly against him, unable to budge in one way or another.

“You can’t leave… I love you.” He whispers with his plump lips grazing across your neck, pushing away the veil.

“And I love you.” You sigh, “But love alone can’t stabilize us. You’re careless with your words… you don’t respect Ivar.”

He could try. He should try. It was his own brother, but every time he took a look at him, he was a child all over again. His lips purse to set a few lax kisses against your neck, scratchy with the facial hair on his chin.

“Sigurd…” You say, bringing your hand behind to cup his head against yours. He lavishes the touch, sinking into her fingertips.

“At least let me enjoy you.”


	5. Xolile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margrethe and he have an agreement-- she can have him, if she'll help him cover for his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male!OC x Sigurd

It was a sacred agreement between Margrethe and he.

He would sleep with her… on the condition that he kept this a secret. That she keep all of his brothers busy with her well used cunt. Sigurd had been careful to choose this place. One where even Ivar would not dare drag himself. Up the slopes surrounding Kattegat’s Fjord, he took the long trek up to the tippy top of these mountains.

It was an unbearable long trip… but one with purpose.

As his pale hand reached over the ledge of the mountain, so high in the sky, he felt a force dragging him to stand. The top of the mountain made him feel flightless as if he may fall over at any moment.

“Sigurd Snake in the Eye.” A gruff, deep voice. “You’ve come back.”

Puffs of hot air whisper against his nape, raised with gooseflesh. The foreigner pushes his hair over one lone shoulder.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” He asks. Open mouthed kisses run across his neck.

“Yes, my little pasty pallid skinned prince.” He whispers heatedly in his ear. “I didn’t. Not with your brothers.”

Sigurd says nothing, drawing his furs over his shoulder as he looks back. The man has high cheekbones, a firm jawline and the deepest of skin that contrasts against fiery red hair. The people here– and he, were like nothing he had ever seen before.

“Xolile… you had to know I would.” Sigurd turns, feeling the stares of others gathered about. Whether it is because he is a man… or because he is different, he’s not sure. A small child waddles up to him, taking his pale hand in wonder.

“Is there not much sun where you are from?” She chirps.

Sigurd’s pale cheeks take on warmth, tucking a braid behind his ear. “Not much.” He admits she has a point. She guides him to a circle where men and women sit. Xolile is a large man. He’s tall and strong. His eyes are rimmed by a coppery coloured iris, taking on a beautiful glint as he sits beside Sigurd.

“Will you play us your… oud?” Xolile asks, bringing his hand drum into his lap. Sigurd fills with some pride as the children look to him. The old men, skeptical of the ‘pasty’ prince had last time judged him by the weight of his music. This time, they are gleeful to see his presence with them. He wonders… if this would mean acceptance. Xolile begins to beat his drum, the white root like painting on his fingers an even beat.

“Why not?” Sigurd can’t stop his bright smile, daring to snuggle against Xolile’s flat chest. His fingers beat evenly– and Sigurd takes the oud on his back off for an even strum. Sigurd is suddenly sure this is what it is to be happy. If only… he could disappear from Kattegat.


	6. Me, Not Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, it isn't Sigurd who takes an axe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death below.

Sigurd was only a few years old when he met you.

You carried a doll in one hand and a basket in the other. One with fresh mushrooms and wild apples from the forest. In his early years, mother had been sure to keep him from your kind: the poor. The more he grew in age, the more he understood that her worries were… stupid. The grime on your skirt was not from inherently bad hygiene or negligence… like poor Siggy faced. It was from days of rutting and harvesting your family something to eat. Your skinny body was from favourtism: the sons were fed first. So when an offer of adoption was posed– to keep Sigurd company, Aslaug said, your father took it. She only took you to keep him company! So she wouldn’t have to.

“What are you going to do, (Y/N)?” You look up from your place beside the Ragnarssons, specifically by Sigurd, teasing the waterfall arms of your dress. It’s Ubbe who calls out to you.

“Well I… I am a healer. I’d like to keep in my field of work with the heathen army. I can feel Eir here!” You look out to the gathered crowd of warriors. They roar just as they had when Ivar spoke. You clear your throat. “But I will go wherever Sigurd is.”

“Ah of course she will go where Sigurd is!” Ivar rolls his eyes, pulling himself up in his chair. “It has always been sweet poor Sigurd, (Y/N). And where, exactly, are you going Sigurd?”

Ivar flicks his fingers in Sigurd’s direction. Sigurd looks up despite your affectionate hand on his. You try to pull him in another direction to nip this fight in the bud. It was always better that way.

“Sigurd please.” You plead with him. “Come play the Oud for me. I can dance for you!”

“I’m sorry to say, (Y/N), but Sigurd wouldn’t be able to do any of those things with you. You have no prick.” Ivar laughs, swigging his drink.

“What… What do you mean?” Your voice is soft and light just like you were. Ivar notices how shy you become. Perhaps for the insult? Likely for the insinuation that only lovers did such things with one another.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know he is an Argr. That is why you have never gotten him into bed.” Ivar cackles. So that even you become quiet, hands in your lap. “Maybe Bjorn could help him or Harald. But not pretty things like you.”

You stand rather abruptly, hands forming fists. Before you can speak however, Sigurd is the one to retort to his crippled brother. “That is funny, coming from you. Aren’t you the one who isn’t a real man, eh, Boneless?”

Those gathered suck in air, make soft whoops and hissing noises. Something is different this time. They both throw threats of the darkest type. No man… no Viking man would consider themselves an Argr!

“Sigurd, hush.” You take his wrist as if to lead him off. There were beautiful rolling pastures. By chance you could take him to one… to go play in silence where there wouldn’t be men there to question his manhood. Like you used to do as children, run off to the hills for hours and gamble eating wild things between hunting for fish and doing as your nanny always taught you, making a flame.

“One second.” Sigurd reaches for his drink while swaying in place.

“No, I suppose life is really hard for you Ivar. Now that you’re mummie is dead, knowing she’s the only one who ever really loved you?”

It breaks out quicker than Sigurd is ready for. Ubbe is saying something. Ivar, ignore him– and he’s aware of you turning in a thicket of fabric. You turn to look in Ivar’s direction just so briefly. He has always had the slowest of reflexes… especially with his ale in his belly. However, he’s aware of the whizzing of axe cutting air. Not so long ago, Ivar had done the same to him. The real cue that something has happened is the dead silence of the crowd gathered. The cup falls from Sigurd’s hand.

“Sigurd.” Ubbe pushes his hands out, the heel of his chair bouncing against the planks. Sigurd’s eyes dart down, finding that your body is like a wall in front of his. A wall quickly crumbling in front of him like the first moment you heard Aslaug had been murdered. You slump over the ground and everything is heavy. The wounds of your stomach, your limbs and even the breath you labour. You don’t have to look to know.

The pain radiates across your stomach. You hear foreign voices calling out to you, but the one and only, is Sigurd’s.

“Don’t move the axe!” He hisses, cradling the back of your head with one hand. Hvitserk is calling for a healer like you. Certainly other shieldmaidens know something– but you can feel the your life slipping.

“I suppose… I won’t see you… in Valhalla…” You exhale heavy breathes. That had always been your dream. To fight alongside Sigurd… so that one day, if the Valkyrie’s chose it, you could join him.

“Don’t be stupid. I will find a healer and you will be fine.” Sigurd has to force the words, looking away from the wound of your stomach. You can barely shake your head.

“No… I won’t.”

It’s the one moment in Sigurd’s life where he knew you were right. He had to be realistic about what was about to occur. He always was. With father and mother passing. With the type of man Ivar was… but not this. You were a daughter of Eir. This– this shouldn’t have been happening. He barks again for a healer.

“I can hear her calling me home.” Longer pauses fill the spaces of your words. You don’t have time left. You’re going… Sigurd’s hair hides the world from your eyes. You can only see him. The short, scruffy blond hair of his beard. Those eyes that are usually so hard, apologetic. Streams of tears breach his eyelids and stream over his pale cheeks. You want so much to rub them away… but its too hard. Instead, he affords you with all the relief you need to overcome your pain.

“But I love you.”

Three measly words that mean the world to you. He wishes he had told you sooner– before sleeping with his brothers because his brothers were. He knew when you ran from him in the forest that day, it was more than embarrassment like Margrethe always told him.

“Me too.” You say– and with a short gasp, it’s done. Nothing but the words left in his throat, burning as if mead and ale both were ripping down into his stomach. He knows that your young body, so filled with life, is now a corpse.

“Aghhh, (Y/N)!” His limbs shake as if in shock. Maybe he was, the shock of having the one thing he could always count upon ripped from his fingers. His breath is snatched away, pained growls ripping out of his chest with every breath he took. Then suddenly, Sigurd’s hand falls lower. He grips the grip of Ivar’s axe, cracking it out of your upper stomach.

He rips so violently from your body that even Ubbe is rawly surprised. Perhaps that was also by his boot cracking Ubbe in the face so hard that he drops onto the ground with his hand clasped around his nose.

“You murdered her.” Ivar sees it coming, Sigurd falling over himself as Ivar pushes out his seat in the shock of the moment. He was wiser than his other brothers– dragging himself down the steps of the platform with Sigurd following close behind.

“It was not my fault she jumped in the way of you, Sigurd!”

“Sigurd!” Ubbe calls out. Ubbe swings back to throw himself over his brother. In sheer rage, Sigurd thrusts his brother off of the platform. His back snaps on the dirt. The heat of the moment claims his sanity. The axe cuts through the air and barrels into his young brother’s back, crawling as he was for his sword.

Then it’s all red, tingly satisfaction.


	7. Wedding Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the wedding day, they cuddle.

The wedding was tomorrow and to say Sigurd was stressed would be putting it lightly. He was snuggled warm against your chest in your bed, head against your breast. On your mounted television, the little mermaid chime Under the Sea, to which you hummed softly.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” You string your hand through his long blond hair. Despite your mother’s squealing of: having him cut it! It still lay long in your fingers. He wasn’t happy about having to straighten it tomorrow for her.

Sigurd huffs, rolling away from the television and raising his hand to your stomach. Lazily he massages your stomach. “To see mother?” He suggests. “No. I don’t know why you had to make her your matron of honour.”

It was a source of contention. Not only for Sigurd but for your own mother. For you, it was more personal than simply obligation. Sigurd has been alienated from his family forever. The only connection he had was to Ubbe whose children you watched so often.

“So we can have a relationship with her. What about when we have our children? What if she was to watch them?” You ask.

Sigurd nuzzles his head deeper. “She will never! I wouldn’t even treat her with Teacup.”

Teacup being the small blonde teacup pom Sigurd bought you for your birthday— to accompany Teapot, your rescue dog. You sigh in agreement, curling his blonde curls around your fingers.

“Do it for me then.” You ask. Your hands finally leave his curls up toward his scalp. The pads of your fingers massage in soft circles.

“Okay…” He yawns cutely— and before long, he nods off. You have to wonder… why doesn’t your hair smell that good? For tomorrow, it better smell even better.


	8. NSFW: Mommie, May I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd wants his "mommie" pregnant.

“Mommy, mommy…”

Sigurd Snake in the Eye had a thing for older women.

Not just older women, but the ones that carried themselves with an air of grace– and respect that followed after them. Not the cocky ones like his mother who garnered pleasure in seeing a man fail. Still…

“Are you going to cum, sweet boy? You look like you’re going to cum.” Your velvety voice fell in ribbons over his ears. He was thrusting above you, a breast in either hand as he nuzzles into the valley of your breasts, the taste of your milk staining his tongue. Pressure was building, his cock was pulsing.

“I– I’m gonna cum, mommy.” Sigurd moans. “Inside. Please?”

He had been trying to hard. He needed one… just one with you. His mommie was speaking, something about holding out a little longer but he simply couldn’t help it. His eyes were lidding shut, pleasure claiming his body with open lips. He gasps out his pleasure with strings of his seed spilling inside of you, clamping down on one of your swollen breasts. Warm milk spurts into his mouth, filling his stomach with fond love of the security he never felt at home.

“You came?”

Sigurd hangs his head like a guilty dog when your pinky dips between the space of his teeth and your nipple. He nods softly in order to escape the fact that you were very much full of his seed when the agreement was, most of the time, he would cum outside.

“I’m sorry, mommie.” Sigurd says. You shoot him a disbelieving look– as if you did not at all believe that was the case. Thankfully, you said nothing in response. You pet his hair almost affectionately, curling his fluffy strands.

“No milk for the rest of the evening.” You reprimand.

It hardly seems fair!

* * *

It had been a long, long time since you had your babies. Your many sons had their own opinions on the way you babied the Ragnarsson boy. You, of course, didn’t care. You babied your grandchildren in your arms, hushing the newborn in your arms. Since you could remember, you held the occupation of a wet nurse. Holding the youngest of children in your arms brings you to all the moments.

_“I’m sorry Mommy.”_

_“I’ll cum outside Mommy.”_

_“Just a little more Mommy!”_

“Do you think he’s spoiled too?” You told your grandchild. The soft squirms of the child were angelic and light. You sigh, dropping onto the bed with your baby in your arms. Of course he was spoiled… he was your baby boy.

“I think so too. Let’s go see him, shall we?”

There was nothing as sweet as seeing his mommy with a child. You came to the Great Hall with arms full with your grandchild. He held onto his chalice with a near death grip, coursing his tongue over his lower lip.

“She’s a good grandmother.” Ubbe leans over the table. You hand your grandchild off. “She’d make an even better mother.”

“I am trying, brother.” Sigurd says. “She has the eye of a falcon.”

Ubbe laughs. He knows exactly what he means and yet as you walk up to the table, nodding to Aslaug with some unspoken word of respect, he knows there’s something on your mind. His chair scratches along the wooden floor. Then taking your hand in his, he makes himself scarce. His brothers all follow him with their prying eyes as he shows you outside, draping his warmest of furs over your back. They reach his barn where the princes keep their horses.

“Are you trying what I think you’re trying, baby boy?” You say, turning your head down. Sigurd’s tongue feels like a weight in his mouth.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

You turn your head away from Sigurd, sipping his furs off of your shoulders. Your heavy woolen dress follows after, pooling around your toes. Sigurd should have known to expect anything and everything from you. Your hand cups his growing erection.

“You’ve been trying to impregnate me.”

You know. You know and he can’t do anything to explain himself. His lack of an answer supplies you with all the knowledge you need. Unceremoniously you shove him back onto a pile of hay, straddling his hips and reaching out to fist his braids.

“Put it in, baby boy.” You hold tension tight on his braids. Sigurd gapes, small gasps and words that aren’t completely formulated escaping his lips. He pulls himself of his pants, fisting the base of his dick and looking for the right hole. He easily finds your slick and forces himself to hilt deep within it. His braids serve as reins, hips cantering down his twitching shaft as if he were nothing more than your pony. Sigurd’s hands fist up bits of hay in his hands.

“Mommie I don’t understand.” Sigurd hunches over with your hands so tightly wrapped in his braids, his face twists. “You aren’t mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” You say. Your hips settle into a savage pace, hardly pulling him out between your desperate thrusts. He’s quickly rising into his own peak, but never so much as when he hears your next words. “I want to bare your sons, my precious boy. All of them.”

Everything goes fuzzy. The words, his lips. How wonderfully you squeeze him. It all means nothing. Sigurd barrels himself forward, knocking you back onto the hard ground. Your hold on his braids is definite. He wastes no time thrusting himself deeper, fuller. You feel his balls slapping against your ass, shaft pulsing. He’s close– and so are you, rolling your breasts and teasing your clit while he does the work.

“Mommie, take it, take it… take my seed.” Sigurd pleads end in roar, watching as he finally does it. His muscles tremble as he hilts deep inside of you, balls slapping your ass as they constrict with painful excitement. He pumps his seed into you, filling you with every last drop of his seed. He bucks himself forward, being sure of what he was doing. It only takes but a minute before Sigurd is bucking with excitement yet again, sloshing in his seed.

“Sigurd?” You call out, a rare moment in which you use his name.

His wild eyes catch yours. “I have to… I have to make sure it takes.”

You wonder how long that would take.


	9. NSFW: The Love I Never Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar never loved her like him.

He was always trying to take Sigurd’s things. This time, however, it was different. Sigurd had taken you! In a way, no, you broke up fairly. He bitterly agreed to stand away as you chased Sigurd– reminding himself to be selfless when all he wanted to do was be selfish. Curiosity claimed him. He lay awake that night without his aching need tended to… but he could hear it. Hear your moans against Sigurd’s bed. Before long, the shushing of his pants sweep the floor toward his brother’s bed.

“Is it too tight (Y/N)?” Sigurd asks.

“Tighter, Sigurd.” She moans, wrists twisting at the binds. “I want the marks… please?”

Fuck. Ivar held himself up on his forearms, completely straight. His brother’s unscathed back faced Ivar as he rearranges the fastens. Obviously, he did not know how you liked it. You loved when the ropes would burn and dig into your lush ladylike flesh. How when a man’s hips were flush with every thrust in, knocking against your cervix, you would arch and fight.

“I’m not going to hurt you?” Sigurd whispers. Their lips meet in an all too romantic kiss. All moans and gasps until you took his fat lower lip between your teeth.

“You could never hurt me. You love me.” You moan. “I’ve always known.”

Sigurd rolls his swollen lip into his mouth, nodding with his fluffy blonde bangs obscuring his dark eyes. He turns his attention elsewhere. Ivar watches Sigurd’s head pass your breasts, turn over your stomach and nestle between your thighs. His slender hand smooths over the glistening mound of your pussy, separating your lips and admiring the juices gathered. It’s uncomfortable for him to see you bound to his father’s spear by wrist and knee, a lone bit of heavy rope tying it to his bed.

“You’ve always been here for me, Sigurd.” You moan. “…and I finally want to feel love.”

His heart strums in his chest. Reverberating the words he last spoke to you. “I’m not capable of love.” Ivar had told you. Sigurd dips down to flatten his tongue along your labia in one smooth lick over the top. His tongue sweeps between your folds, eliciting a long arch of your back.

“I’m not like Ivar.” Sigurd says, burying his nose into your folds. He takes your inner lips into his mouth, worshiping them with his sole attention. His hands have come up, palming your pussy and gently pushing your lips together. He pops off of the inner labia, slurping you like the best of his mead.

“You never had to be.”

Ivar’s jaw knits as he carries himself far away. It was done, it was over. Perhaps he could satisfy you in bed… but there was one, special area he had failed you completely: in love.


	10. Little White Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't let his baby mama go yet.

The garage door reverberated a soft security alarm through the home. Heavy footsteps slapped from the laundry room out to the hallway to the kitchen where you stood.

“Fa!” A maniacal giggle cooes from behind you. Your daughter at no more than two years of age pushes herself onto her two feet, barreling past her many doggie toys.

“Aslaug!” He chimes fondly, setting down his guitar case and work bag. You turn around just in time to see Sigurd plucking up your daughter with his messy blonde hair cropped short, waving this way and that.

“Hey Sigurd.” You turn back to the stove to mix the potatoes with oily thick butter and a mix of Sigurd’s favourite herbs. He walks in tired from work, thankful for dinner. For years now you had lived together, agreeing to raise Aslaug jointly together.

“Hey (Y/N).” Sigurd leans in to kiss the top of your head. “How was Aslaug?”

“Good as always.” You note, setting the potatoes aside and checking the meat. Aslaug rests in his arms for only seconds before kicking and squirming her long legs to be set free, darting off in a flash of blonde hair.

“Did you go see Marco of whatever his name is?” Sigurd walks over to wash his hands as you take out the roast. You set the roast on top of the stove, pulling your hair around to tuck a bit behind an ear.

“No. He showed me up!” You huff, turning around with your back against the oven. You take off a red oven mitt then the other.

“I thought I was cute, too, but I guess not.” You sigh. Sigurd reaches out to grab your shoulders.

“You’re all the beautiful things in the world.” Sigurd says. He can read you like an open book. If that were so, why would you be stood up? There’s a secret behind the smile on his lips, the cocky one in which he knew he had done something just awful.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my baby daddie.” You look down to pressure on your leg. Little Aslaug forces herself between your legs. Vand, she says asking for a refill on her drink. Sigurd rolls his lower lip into his mouth. Fuck them.

“Even I have standards, (Y/N).” He laughs. “Weren’t you the one telling me to dump Margrethe? For sleeping with all my brothers? Of course I was sleeping with my best friend too… wonder who that was?”

You pout that adorable pout grabbing Aslaug’s cup. “Shut uuppppp. Go get your daughter more water, Sigurd.”

He laughs deeply and walks off as you turn to plate his daughter’s food, plucking her up and walking over to her high chair. As your phone pops up with a message, Sigurd’s eye falls upon it. Like the snake he is known for, he pops it open and deletes the message. Because well, he wasn’t so stupid to know you hadn’t done the same with Blaeja and…

Sigurd Snake in the Eye doesn’t give up so easy.


	11. NSFW: That Boy is MINE!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's all hers. Now and forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubcon.

The marriage to Blaeja was arranged. It wasn’t like he wanted to go– he didn’t know this Christian woman and her strange ways. By far– he didn’t want to. He rather be here in your arms.

Your pussy was amazingly tight, muscles squeezing and releasing his shaft to milk him of his sweet seed. Sigurd was in awe of the amazing clench, rolling his fingers against your breasts to ensure you would orgasm soon. He was closing in on his orgasm. Deep, unrestrained moans filling the air as you did all you could to pleasure him. Your hands had slip at some point down to his ass, dragging delicious marks of pain over his cheeks. It hurt– but it hurt so fucking good.

“I… I agh, I need to cum.” Sigurd whines. He had been trying to hold it back all night– but with his Margrethe ripped out from under him, he had been at your mercy.

“Cum, my sweet prince.” Sigurd steadies himself with his forearm, pounding out the remainder of his pleasured thrusts until he cums. But as he lurches back to pull out, as he usually did, your legs are there to stop him. Your hands have left his ass, jerking his mid back to pull him down and his shoulder to yank him deeper.

“No! Stop!” Sigurd sobs out as he thrashes.

“Shh, shh, shut up, Sigurd.” Your legs squeezing him forcefully down to hilt ball deep inside of you. Sigurd’s balls clench, emptying his seed into your cervix. The fluffy curtains of his hair fall over his bunched up shoulders, wrinkles forming across his nose as he gasps out in sheer pleasure.

“Please…” He gasps but he finally admits to his defeat, despite trying his best to break your grip. It’s pointless to try. When his eyes open, dilated with the snake of Fafnir stretching from one curvature to another, he finally is able to break your grip.

“What the hell was that, (Y/N)?!” He snaps, fist crashing beside your head. His face contorts hatefully, scrunched up just like when he fought with Ivar.

“Don’t tell me you suddenly don’t want babies.” You say. Sigurd scoffs as he pulls himself forcefully out of your hole, forcing your legs apart to look at his creamy seed slipping out onto the furs.

“Are you kidding me?” Sigurd’s scratchy voice rasps. “I was meant to marry Princess Blaeja!”

As his eyes skate up your body you lay there looking, of all things, satisfied. Your palm rests on your breasts, lips curving out into a wide smile baring the cum of the prince.

“Not anymore.” You churn a smile, reaching down to gather his cum on your fingers. It coats your fingers and promptly you bring it to your lips, suckling his seed off your fingers. “I’m going to be the only mother to Sigurd Snake in the Eye’s children.”

It was right then that he realized you were as crazy as Ivar. Now how would he be accepted as king to his new lands? “Have her sign over her lands in exchange for a safe exile.” You crawl over to Sigurd, teasing his firm arms with your long fingers. Sigurd jerks his arm from you, rubbing his forehead under fluffy blond bangs.

“I have to speak to Bjorn.” He stuffs his cock into his pants, leaving shoes and tunic aside as he walks out of the door. For some time– your eyes settle on his axe. If Sigurd wouldn’t do it, you could easily remedy the issue of your rival. Viking women were, after all, not to be replaced.


	12. Sweet Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar taunted him about his love. So he let her go-- now, he regrets it.

A voluptuous, curvy woman. You were thicker than any of the women that his brother had. Maybe that was the point. The thick, round curves were just his taste. Beyond all the women he could have had as a first love, he loved how your skin felt under his fingers. Or in a way, against his hips. The weight, the figure sure– it allured him. Nothing as brilliantly as your sweet demeanor and truthfully tranquil air you brought wherever you went. You rise your hand into the dead wind, waving at him.

“Goodbye Sigurd!” You say fondly.

His heart quivers under the strain of seeing you here to send him off. But not just him, another Viking with long blond hair braided down his back. He held your waist in a smooth hug. Maybe your brother– probably your brother.

“The fat girl is waving at you again.” Ivar chortles. That was the source of this– this predicament. He told himself that he didn’t need you. He could easily prove Ivar wrong by sharing where he couldn’t. Sigurd had been successful but as the blond viking met your lips with his own, he knew that he was no mere brother.

A lover.

“She seems to have a man. Is that Siarr Leifsson?”

“It looks like it.”

His fingers tighten into colourless fists as Siarr mashes his hands under your thick legs, successfully picking you up like you were weightless. As he remembers, that is what you so loved. To feel like a weightless princess in a man’s arms. Except… they weren’t his.

As Bjorn beats down the pier toward him, blurring out the sight with his hulking frame, his mind blanks into a sole thought. His first love, his first lover. Why did he let you go?


	13. Baby Bleeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd's daughter has her first bleed.

His little girl was always the first to wake up in the morning.

She took her time braiding her golden hair and intricate little knots and braids, so when he woke up and heard nothing– he knew something was wrong. At her bedside, curled up in a ball with her golden hair sloppily strewn around her, she groaned gently.

“Is it time to get up?” She asks.

Sigurd slides beside her, combing bits of her hair away from her tired eyes. His palm rests on her forehead. She felt… hotter than usual, but not in a heat that was not raging.

“No, princess. What is wrong? You are always up.” He asks her, pulling at her shoulder gingerly. She turns among her crisp sheets careful not to wake up her twin brother. Reclining on her forearms, she swallows shyly.

“I’m… I’m just bleeding fadir.” She tries to sit, brows wincing tightly together. “I can work. Mother gave me a tea.”

“Mother gave you a tea?” He furrows his eyebrows, folding his arms as if insulted that his wife hadn’t told her of their daughter’s first bleed. That was important to know– what if it was something else?

“Lay down.” He says. “I’ll find a healer.”

“Fadir– women have been having bleeds long before me.” She chirps shyly, obediently laying back as he guides her.

“Not my princess.” He lays a small kiss to her forehead, drawing the warm sheets back over her. He sweetly pushes her hair away from her face and leaves the room. Distinctly, she could hear him. Blaeja!

Mommy could get in trouble too.


	14. Wifey Bleeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wife has her monthly bleed.

Your bleeds were never this bad.

Not until you gave birth to Sigurd’s triplets. Then, of course, everything went to shit. Now two years later, you found yourself aching with strong cramps causing the blood to stream down your inner thighs.

It also made doing your duty in making new clothes very diffcult when you were doubled over in pain. Second meal was done. At least you didn’t have to think of–

“(Y/N)?!” Your husband came in, dropping his kill onto the wooden floors.

Ah shit. You glance over as he rushes forward, winding his hand about your waist to straighten you back up, bending down to pull you into his arms with a hand under your knees. You knew right then that it would be one of those weeks.

“Sig… I’m fine.” You murmur, finding that he was already howling at the thralls for your usual bath.

“Is it bothering you again?” He asks, walking over to the area where your bathes were usually drawn in a tub.

“No Sig just the bat–”

“A healer?” He suggests next. “In case it is something more.”

If it was something more you were bound to be dead. But you know the pains, you know your body. The thralls get to work assembling a warm bath and as Sigurd helps you guide into the water, your recline with a warm sigh. Water is a magical thing. SIgurd’s hands massage along your shoulders.

“Just the bath.” You say.

Sigurd frowns behind you, massaging the stress out of your shoulders. He never said anything– but the guilt weighed with him. Before giving birth to his sons you were fine! Now… Now the weight of the triplets had injured you in such a way to have these aches once a month. A woman’s burden that he thought was his.

“It’s my fault. You need to take the day off so–”

“I’ll be fine!”

The moment the words slip out of his mouth, you bat water at Sigurd, coating his blonde bangs in water that he coughs under. There was none of that talk in your bath. You sink your shoulders under the water and so Sigurd massages your long hair affectionately.

“Then the midwife did say another baby could–”

“Sigurd!”


	15. Hvitserk's Thrall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk auctions off his thrall.

“Who wants her!”

Seeing that Hvitserk was back, Bjorn and he were selling off their thralls. The bulk of which were Bjorn’s… but some to Sigurd. He never once thought anything of thralls. Much of them were the same creed as them. Rare differences in ethnic groups left him bored. Thralls were expensive, costly to maintain too. He could spend his time with other things. His Oud, his brothers… nature. There were tons of things he could do.

Or so he thought. The moment he saw her it all changed. She was collared with tight rope around her throat but adorned in the finest fabrics that were foreign to him. Coins jingle in the cool air of Kattegat, glistening in the peak of sun that burned out from an overcast of cloud.

“She sings too!” Hvitserk yanks her collar forward, making the choked out gasp filter through the air. “Sing!”

At his demand, a voice so sweet fills the air. Her deep night blue silks darken her skin and every man that could see her stomach bending and twisting had disgusting thoughts of what they could do. Any man would.

Shamefully he was no different. He could only imagine pulling her wrists down by rope toward her mound as he pounded inside of her, his free hand tilting against his thumb to bring her another aching orgasm. Over and over he would worship her body, caress her dark skin and have her sing against the tune of his oud.

He looks among the other men gathering about the sight of her hips fluttering and shaking, every moment drawing his arousal to peek under his trousers. Not for solely her hips, but her silken voice that left him inhaling sharply. Each one surely thinking of how they could take her, how far the price would rise for an excellent bed slave.

She sounded like a goddess. If there was ever a time to use his privelege as a Ragnarsson– now was it. He could have it, have her, regardless of what his brother wanted. No one would fight a Ragnarsson in Kattegat. He looks to Hvitserk in a firm voice.

“I want her.”


	16. Her Uncle's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd's daughter is born with OI. He knows someone that might be able to help. If he could just swallow his pride.

In his own way, Sigurd knew that her pains were something he could be accountable for. The times he spent cursing at Ivar for something that was, as he would rarely say out loud, wasn’t his fault. It could have happened to anyone… but he knows that his cruelty could have set him up for this.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do.” You say as you pace around your room with his daughter in his arms. Tears wet your eyes as she cried audibly through the thick walls that felt thin. The eyes of her smaller brothers were wide like glistening jewels from their blond haired father to where you were, desperate to stop her wailing cries. A scene he remembers– because of course, it’s seared into his mind.

“Give her to me.” Sigurd offers out his arms. You slide the bundle into his arms, finding the burden of her pain better shared. Sigurd holds her tight against his chest, drawing his fur coat to cover them both. You follow after with your fingers anxiously melding together.

“Please… please don’t hurt her.” You know rationally Sigurd wouldn’t– but in your heart, you’re scared.

“It will be okay.” Sigurd turns last second to cup your cheek. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Where will you go?” You ask.

“To someone who knows.”

* * *

He had reservations visiting this hall. But with no choice and miles travelled, he presses inside. There was a healthy prattle of children and women. Ivar and his many wives, one of which he teased the chin of sweetly when the influx of cool air rips him from her. She almost whines.

“Shh. Shhh. It’s my brother.” Ivar pushes himself up in his chair. He stands up by the aid of his crutch, walking down the steps to where Sigurd was. He must have assumed Sigurd came to present the child, bless her. Ivar opens his mouth only to be cut off.

“Her body is like yours.” He says, lowering his head to look down at his daughter. Warm blankets hold her quiet, but in moments, her snake entwined eyes will snap open. Ivar spares his brother a rare look of pity. If ever Sigurd deserved it… it was now.

“She is a cripple?”

Sigurd winces in wish that he could lash out. He turns up his head with a wave of his blonde braids to speak when his small let out an angenous wail. Sigurd’s eyes fall down to her, clutching her tight as if it was his own body wrought in the aches.

“Kati stoke a fire. Saeunn a bath.” He calls to his wives. The brunette rushes down from her place to stoke the fire as his women often did. It was their job to take after the hearth of the home. Ivar jerks his head in the direction of the warmth.

“You have to keep her warm.” Ivar says. “To loosen the pain.”

Ivar pulls out a chair and guides himself to sit while Saeunn and his thralls bring a bath close to the flames. Ivar sets his crutch over his lap to offer his arms out to his brother as the bath is filled with cool water. Apprehensively, Sigurd draws back.

“Do you want my help or not, brother?” He bites.

She needs him– it bites him to know this, but she does. He does. Sigurd hands his screaming child into Ivar’s arms. He motions Sigurd to undress and slide into the water. This can either go one of two ways. Very good or very bad. It all depends on how she takes the water.

“It’s done, my love.” Saeunn says, offering Sigurd a hand to get in. He slides into the water, rapidly warming by the warm effects of the hot fire. Ivar loosens the blankets around the child, then her thin dress and hands her to Kati so he can stand. He moves over to Sigurd, easing the child into the water. At first, Sigurd inhales sharply.

Her screams aren’t dying off any– and how he loathes the suggestion that something as trivial as hot water would fix her ailment. But little by little the tears and heated cries die off. He’s left with his daughter lax against his chest, tiny chest inhaling and exhaling smoothly. For once in her young life– she isn’t heaving nearly as harshly as usual.

Or screaming like someone was gutting her alive.

She was just… tranquil. Something that he couldn’t bye the pleasure of from a million healers that came with smoke and rune. It was experience. Skin to skin with his daughter, his fingers find their way through her blonde curls. It’s the first time he has ever been able to appreciate her button of a nose or the eyes that are just like his. Her soft cheek presses against his pale chest and soon– she lulls herself to peaceful rest in the water.

“It worked.” Ivar kneels with his hands stabilizing his body over the rim of the bath.

“It… it did.” Sigurd drops his head back, rolling along so that he has no choice but to look into his little brother’s eyes. “…thank you.”

He’d only say it once. Ivar flicks a long grin, the first of many to come when they would move back to Kattegat.

“You’re welcome.”


	17. Feed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd doesn't have an ordinary wife.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ec927e41d3dd36e0d1490917e929a789/tumblr_pfp22s7GTS1v19l0n_500.jpg)

“Is it rabbit again?”

The disease had stormed his wife’s body. Most nights, she was fine. She could eat the raw meat that he caught her. For one reason: the blood. It wasn’t her choice of taste. He knows when she’s coming down with something. The iron tasting meat loses its appeal and she snuffs it away.

“It’s venison.” Sigurd says.

“I don’t want it.” She responds. In the corner of the room, she lays under the abundant silken furs that frame the bend of her waist and billow of her hips. Sigurd sits beside her on a creaky, uneven chair. The embroidered aqua blue sleeves of his elbows sit upon his chocolatey trousers.

“You have to eat something, (Y/N).” Sigurd pleads though his voice is evenly confident.

She peels the fur off the top of her head, sclera taken up by inky black as her crimson eyes focus upon him without fail. The normal round of her eye is taken up like a slit behind the waving, burning red of her hair.

“I need to hunt.” She pushes the furs off of her unscathed, pale body. It had been a long time. At the minimum, weeks since she had gone without feeding. Her body is frail without its lifesource. Of course she gained nutrients from raw meat but her body craved and needed the blood to keep its healing capacity in order. She lifts her hips off of the bed, slipping over the side when Sigurd slides between her legs. She lifts a clawed hand to slap him, taken by a feral need to hunt when his loving words beat through archaic urges searing through your skin.

“Feed on me.” He says. “Don’t go. Ubbe is still searching for the murderer.”

Your claws soften out of a curl, brushing his cheek all too gently. “My sweet Sigurd…” You murmur as your hands grip the collar of his tunic, dropping him back onto your bed with an oof from his lips. With an overwhelming strength you hold his wrists at his hips, nudging his face to the side with your nose.

Uncertainty wells up in a raging race of his heart, waiting for the ache of your teeth. It comes slowly, a set of teeth grind down into your neck. The canines are sharp and strong, more forceful than your molars. Sigurd manages out a harsh grunt as you manage as far as your gums, not daring to go an inch father, lest he have an even worse time turning into the monster you were. His eyes affix onto the ceiling as you milk his artery of the deep red blood. It’s like a thick gust of wind, knocking his breath out of his chest. Though he assumes that is because of the blood content falling lower– then lower– and lower.

At some point, you pull your teeth out from his neck. An icy feeling of feeling empty burns through his neck but instead, you lap your tongue over the wound. The natural coagulants of your saliva still the bleeding. Not that he can quite tell the difference as now he is the pale one. Colour flushes back into your skin. When he finally looks back into your eyes, they’ve fallen back into the telltale hue he has always loved. You don’t bare the telltale sign of your breed’s ‘hunter eyes.’

“I did it again…” You press your fingers against his neck, curling away the stringy blonde bangs from his eyes. Sigurd grunts, supplying pressure while motioning you away to fetch him something to drink. You come back with water, dragging him on top of you. You steady him with his head upon your breasts, forcing him to drink the warm milk that you milked earlier in that day before all this happened.

“I don’t mind.” He looks up to you, sliding his bloody fingers off of his hand to take yours in his. “It’s worth it. It always is.”

You knew you were beginning to become addicted to his taste.


	18. Sigurd's Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

“Twins?” Sigurd says, his snake entwined eyes blown wide. He drops his hand from fluffy blonde bangs, shakily reaching for another drink of mead. “Are you sure?”

Your hand lays upon your swollen round stomach, massaging the top of the taut skin. “I’m sure…. I’m sorry.” You apologize profusely, despite the fact that the Ragnarsson has already looked away.

When he meant to get you pregnant, so that he could marry you, he didn’t quite mean this pregnant.


	19. For My Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one brought honour to her husband after his death. She will.

“She is coming!”

His men punch out shouts. Others too fearful to speak. All of them had their own little rumours of a goddess– a valkyrie– spreading as they move in through the walls. Ivar sat in his makeshift throne, hands curling against the knobbed armrests of his chair. He leans forth to one.

“A shieldmaiden ran you off?” He asks.

“She was no shieldmaiden!” The man quivers, the bloody gash at his side suppressed only by pressure. “She was with child!”

It doesn’t add up to him. His men, thrown off by a pregnant woman? Ivar’s hand snaps to his belt, slashing the head of his axe against the man’s throat. The man sputters as he falls to his knees, then drops to the cool cracked floors. His sight is undisturbed by the man’s offensive presence but then another takes its place.

In the doorway is a womanly figure. Her sanguinary gown isn’t marked by a natural dye as he makes out the gown was once blue. The crimson blood streaks her breast and bump just as the man had said. Ethereal steps carry her onward. The men brave enough stomp to shield her from his view but Ivar ushers them down.

“Who are you?” Ivar gathers his crutch, pushing himself to stand. His lamps light the way– and though she isn’t saying anything at all– he feels a bizarre anxiety building in his gut.

“You.” Her voice was familiar. Its shaking like the strong gust against a boat, quivering with every syllable off her lips.

“You killed my husband.”

Ivar has killed many a man. He couldn’t be blamed for one lone man in the field of war. But then you step into a bright, fiery lamp. It lights your face, every feminine crease lighting fairly quick. As quickly as he realizes who you are, he knows why you’ve come.

“You killed Sigurd. In cold blood.” Your hand clenches and the blood on its grip squishes. He never knew you to be familiar in the ways of war. Surely for defense of a home but this– this is more.

You were surely a berserker.

“It had nothing to do with you, (Y/N).” Ivar supplies to you. But of course, you nearly jump at him.

“It had EVERYTHING TO DO WITH ME!” You roar, slapping the head of your axe against your breast. “Your brothers might all be cowards abandoned by their father but I am nooo coward, Boneless. You will fight me.”

Your voice is a thick growl, speaking with the anguish of not just a widow. He quickly understands that the tone you use is spiked with a tone of a mother who has just lost… everything. Even so your stomach is round and full with child.

“You are with child.” He holds onto the grip of his crutch as he descends.

“And you are a cripple.” You bite. “It will be an equal match in my state.”

Your affirmation is strong, steady. In such close proximity, it would be easy for you to kill him. Something holds you back, he reads it over your brewing eyes. Perhaps you wanted to see him die rather than take the coward’s way out.

“You would not be able to defeat your king if you tried until Ragnarok.”

“You are not my king.” You say among intermittent pauses. “My King was Ragnar Lothbrok, the farmer who became a king. You are only a bully. If I… If I need to fight until Ragnarok to get my revenge, I will.”

Your words ring true with Ivar. A woman– a Viking woman– would always seek out her revenge. She would pray to the gods and find it if she could not find it in her heart to forgive. You’re a very head strong woman. He always knew that his brother did not deserve you.

* * *

__

_“She is too headstrong for you Sigurd.” Ivar said over dinner._

_Sigurd sat up in his chair and spun his spoon smoothly. “Does little Ivar think he know what is good for me?” He said, as if half charmed and half annoyed. Ivar’s eyes slid shut, then open again. This time, he looked to Sigurd with deep amusement._

_“Not for you, her.” Ivar snapped. “She is Viking.”_

_While Sigurd never was._

__

“I will fight you after you give birth to the child. Or nothing.”

It doesn’t sit well with you, brewing angrily with your hand tight around the grip. “That is not what I came here for.”

“If I kill you, I would go to Hel for killing my nephew. If you are wounded and the baby dies, we both will.” Ivar talks with sense. You hate it– almost as much as you hate him. You rather your child bask in your triumph… but. He talks reason. If you died in such a way– you would never see your sweet Sigurd again.

“And what do you expect me to do until then?” You growl out.

Ivar looks about, shrugging his shoulders at the bodies strewn about the room. In fear of what you would bring, his men had been massacred. Now that they were dead– Ivar had room to spare.

“Stay here.” He offers.

“So that you can kill me in my sleep?” You snarl.

“What did I just say?”

You would have to wait to fight him. You loosen your grip on the axe and suddenly– oh so suddenly, you become aware of the ache that had been burning between your legs. As it clatters to the ground– you almost join it, your head buzzing with pressure.

“Healer!” He shouts, his disgusting hand still on your side. Anxiety, disgust and a radiating pain all soar through your limbs. I’m sorry, Sigurd.


	20. Music!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So maybe he can summon mermaids.

No one appreciated his music. After battle, his brothers were all bathing away the dried blood from their bodies. It was the first thing Sigurd had done and after a long, hard day, it was with his oud on his lap as he sat on a fat rock formation beside Ivar. Ivar who for once wasn’t picking on him. His gaunt legs were in the crystal clear waters waving side to side.

“An ash I know it stands, it is named Yggdrasil.” Sigurd sang in a soft trill of the familiar folk song. “High tree, sprinkled, with white mud.”

Maybe it was the song to the gods that had Ivar quiet or the smooth waters. With Ubbe shoving Hvitserk’s head under the water, the waves were lapsing higher and higher on the rock. Then with a sudden pop, bubbles gave way to a sloshy mop of ocherous locks beside Ivar’s notched legs.

“What the fuck!” Ivar snaps out of his calm. Hand snapping to a jagged grey rock, he hauled it up into his arm. Sigurd was most definitely slow in reflexes, but grabbed his brother’s thick wrist nonetheless.

“What are you doing?!” Ivar complains when the being pulled apart the curtain of her hair between her webbed fingers, a pair of grassy eyes glowering at him.

“I just wanted to hear the music.” She says shyly, hands coming in front over very naked breasts, clasping sweetly. “Were you playing the music?”

Before Sigurd could respond, another bubbling gave way for a beautiful white haired girl, tugging herself up so quickly that Sigurd almost lost control of his Oud into the rippling waters.

“We came to hear music!” She slaps water upon Ivar and he. Sigurd coughs in disbelief, eyes catching a glisten of blue scales, iridescent with hues of rich purple and glittering green.

“Hey!” Hvitserk calls from deep in the waters as if he were offended that HE was left out. “Where did you find them?”

“Women? Sigurd lured women?” Ubbe’s eyes furrow together, swiping with a long stride closer to the brothers. Hvitserk comes closer only to jump at a deep brunette peeping up with Sigurd’s oud. Her long claws scratch marks into the oak the instrument. Ivar abandons the rock, hands forming fists crawling upon the rock to get away.

“I want a woman.” Hvitserk grumbles.

“Did you play the pretty music?” The lightest haired mermaid drags herself over to him. Hvitserk and Ubbe slide their arms against the rock, using it to hold themselves in the water as a prop.

“Oh, Sigurd knows all sorts of songs.” Hvitserk says to the cooing brunette, leaning in to pull apart her hair from deep, chocolate eyes. “Why don’t you play the pretty ladies something?”

Because they weren’t ladies? That seemed like a pretty good reason to him! Sigurd’s jaw drops, taking back his oud from the mermaid.

“I-I don’t know.” Sigurd glances up when she gingerly massaged his tense shoulders. With those sharp claws, he knew the jewels glittering like a crown on her head were a lie.

“Please?” She asks.

“You heard the lady.” Ubbe slightly bends his head, eyes shifting back to Ivar who recedes to the other side of the water. Sigurd sighs, beginning to strum again. Ivar’s gruff groaning reveals a blue, curly haired girl tugging him into the water with an oof, swimming towards Sigurd’s new little fan group with her new package.

“I could have drowned!” Ivar screams.

“Come Ivar!” Ubbe cackles, drawing his hand over the redhead’s shoulders. “We are here to hear Sigurd play music.”

“Music!” The girls coo.

Ivar just groans.


End file.
